


Sherlock's Kink Chapter 2

by I_am_lampy



Series: Standalone Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 20:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: I messed up and made the second chapter a separate story. So here's the 2nd chapter!





	Sherlock's Kink Chapter 2

Sherlock walks behind John into the kitchen, guiding him, keeping him from bumping into the table. John's tears are still falling continuously, but John himself is silent and Sherlock is beginning to worry. He stops John and brings out the bottle of water with the straw inside. He hands it to John who drinks it without having to be told. Then, Sherlock pulls the bowl of ice cubes out of the freezer. He grabs the lidocaine and another bottle of water out of the fridge as well and then, his arms full of cold things, he guides John into the bedroom.

There, he helps John lie down on his stomach on the towels Sherlock laid out on the bed when John was in the bathroom.

"John?"

John ignores him, his face pressed into the pillow, his eyes closed. Sherlock feels he's missed something. He's not been paying attention and now something has gone horribly wrong.

"John?  _ John _ , open your eyes," Sherlock says sharply. What he really wants to say is  _ darling, please, open your eyes, tell me what I've done wrong _ .

John's eyes open. They watch each other for a moment. John's tears have abated for now. Then John reaches out for the iron ring bolted into the wall behind their bed, grips it in one hand, and raises his eyebrows.  _ Well? _

Sherlock smiles nervously. "So, you want to continue, then?"

John cocks an eyebrow.  _ Does it look like I want to stop? _ Sherlock nods and pulls the pillows out from under John's head so that he can lay flat on the mattress, then helps John up onto his knees and brings his wrists together so that he's supporting himself on his forearms. 

Sherlock locks John's wrist cuffs together and then grabs a length of rope already set aside on the floor next to the bed. He folds it and loops it through the D-rings on John's cuffs exactly like he loops his scarf around his neck. He pulls the two loose ends through the ring on the wall twice and then ties a square knot. He tugs the knot to test. It's not fancy, but the silk rope holds a knot much better than nylon or hemp, which makes it best in a pinch, and the rope means John can stay on his knees and rest on his forearms. 

John is now on his knees and forearms and his wrists are cuffed together and roped to the wall. He has plenty of wiggle room, but he won't be able to move off the bed or touch himself, which is really the point of this restraint. John loves being edged, which Sherlock is happy to comply with even though he can't imagine being able to maintain the discipline to do such a thing himself. But Sherlock is far more inclined towards instant gratification and large appetites. John is so controlled, so tightly wound sometimes that Sherlock's not always sure that he has learned everything there is to know about John Watson. Sherlock can read what John's thinking in every lift of his eyebrow and tilt of his head, but John's feelings go very deep and Sherlock is in the constant pursuit of trying to get to them, like someone drilling for oil.

This, what they're doing now, sometimes feels like the only way he can get John to talk about things. Sherlock cannot get John to do something he doesn't want to do—he can't manipulate him into something. Maybe  _ trick _ him, but that's a schoolyard tactic, something anyone can do.  _ Meet me here at this time at this place _ and then not show up? Yeah, that's a trick. But subtly convince him to reveal something he doesn't want to reveal? 

Only when he's in subspace or coming up from it.

"I'm going to put on the lidocaine now, John."

John nods and Sherlock squeezes some onto his hands and then starts smoothing it over the dark heat of John's arse and thighs. John gasps and moans, pulling away from Sherlock's touch, and Sherlock has to steady him so he doesn't accidentally fall over onto his side. It takes a quarter of an hour to get it done and the whole time, Sherlock's lips are ghosting over John's skin, his fingertips sliding and gently pressing. Sherlock is fully hard, but John's lost some of his erection. He's not flaccid, but he's fallen back to a less intense state of arousal.

"Now for the ice cubes," Sherlock says hoarsely, his level of arousal high enough to make him feel he might combust.

"Mm," John agrees.

Sherlock freezes the ice cubes in test tubes (clean ones, of course) which makes them perfect for his purpose. He takes one out of the bowl and carefully spreads John's cheeks. He brushes the tip of the ice cube around John's anus, letting it linger on the swollen flesh from the mini-paddle.

Then Sherlock puts his tongue to work. He swirls the tips all around the knot of muscle then teases it over John's hole itself. John groans quietly. He's not particularly loud during sex—neither of them are—but the intensity of this sensation coupled with the descent into subspace can leave him completely without inhibitions and the noises he makes—Sherlock doesn't like to gag him because they are  _ exquisite _ . They are the most basic expressions of sensation he's ever heard. They're guileless and unrestrained and everything John Watson is  _ not _ and Sherlock loves knowing that he's taken buttoned-up John Watson, he of the cardigans and sensible shoes, and turned him into a moaning, wanton slut.

When they normally have sex, John's quiet, but bossy, which is pretty much what he's like in real life—quietly bossy. Or maybe it's just that Sherlock obeys him where he wouldn't with anyone else, so John doesn't  _ have _ to be loud. Sherlock hasn't quite figured out if there's a difference.

The fingers holding the ice cube are freezing and he wants to put it down, but John's hole has begun to loosen up. Sherlock pulls back to look and watches it flutter closed and then dilate open again. It's just enough to fit the ice cube in. Slowly, he slides it in while John says  _ grr _ and  _ ah  _ and  _ fuck _ . Sherlock leaves the ice cube half in and half out of John's body.

Sherlock wishes he could freeze himself and then slide into John's body and be absorbed. When he says things like that out loud, John sometimes says  _ I love you, too _ , and it leaves fluttering wings in Sherlock's stomach to know that John understands what Sherlock's saying.

As the ice cube melts, Sherlock's tongue works around the outside where John's anus is stretched around it. Then, with his tongue, he pushes the ice cube the rest of the way in.

"Jesus,  _ fuck _ ,  _ Sher _ lock," John groans.

"I don't think he'd be interested," Sherlock quips.

John laughs, which causes the ice cube to push out slightly and Sherlock is fascinated. He pushes it back in with his tongue and then pushes his tongue in slightly. As the ice cube melts, Sherlock licks and sucks the warmed water out of John's body. John's hole relaxes even further and Sherlock is able to push his tongue almost all the way in. Then he wraps his lips around the softening ring of muscle and sucks until the ice cube slips back into his mouth.

It takes a little less than ten minutes to melt, by Sherlock's estimate, and the whole time he's been tonguing John's sensitive hole, thrusting in and out, sucking on the cold ice cube and the heat of John's entrance and Sherlock might seriously combust this time.

They'd tried this only once before, but Sherlock had thought to freeze fruit juices. It ended up irritating poor John's arsehole, which wasn't funny, but which made them laugh nonetheless and John had said  _ you can't keep putting weird shit into my body, okay? _ It had taken a month to convince John to try the ice cubes again.

Sherlock can't wait any longer. He  _ needs _ to orgasm. It's a persistent ache that has settled deep in his balls. For some reason, this time has been different. More intense. It's not something that can be quantified.

"I'm going to suck you off, John, are you ready?" Sherlock asks.

He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he gets up off the bed and then lies down perpendicular to John, shimmying his way underneath until he can suck John's prick into the slick heat of his mouth.

"Oh, _oh,_ " John says and then hisses through his teeth, sucking air in sharply.

Sherlock is stroking himself, his body hanging half off the bed, his mouth working John's prick with no real finesse. John doesn't seem to care for finesse either and he begins to jerk his hips back and forth, pushing himself into Sherlock's mouth, incoherent murmurings interspersed with choked off grunts.

Sherlock is rising and rising and thrusting up into his own hand, trying to keep himself focused on John, unable to think between the two sensations, trying to fight off the urge to be selfish, when John's hips press him down into the mattress and Sherlock's mouth fills with John's semen. For some reason, Sherlock can't swallow, and it begins to dribble out of the corners of his mouth.

"Sherlock, you can come out from und—"

John looks down at Sherlock to see him looking back at John, wide-eyed, John's cum dripping out of his mouth and into his ears and hair. Then Sherlock's orgasm hits him and John's semen  _ erupts _ out of Sherlock's mouth, sending John into a fit of laughter. Sherlock is still sputtering through his own orgasm, his jaw dripping with John's cum, a small pool collected in the shell of his ear. He looks indignant, which only makes John laugh harder.

Finally, Sherlock swallows what's left in his mouth and wipes the rest away and wiggles his way out from under John. He reaches up and unties John while John laughs and laughs and finally, John is untied, unbuckled and settled down onto his side.

"I couldn't breathe," Sherlock finally says. "My throat closed up, I don't know why, and then I couldn't breath and then my orgasm hit. Do you think we might try auto—"

"No," John says. "Absolutely not."

"But you're a doctor and—"

"Sherlock, I am  _ not _ strangling you so you can get off."

"I beat you so you can—"

"Yes, but you  _ like _ to beat me.”

“You say that n—”

“Why did you want to play today?” John asks abruptly, eyes averted.

The non sequitur leaves Sherlock momentarily unable to respond, so he busies himself with fetching wet flannels and cleaning John and himself up. The sun has risen and it limns the outline of John's body. Finally, Sherlock lies down on the bed and props himself on his elbow facing John. He uses a single fingertip to caress a line from the edge of John's eyebrow down his chin, to the little dimple there.

“You came home Tuesday looking so sad," Sherlock says at last. "I didn't ask you to play then because you had to work yesterday. When you came home last night you were sad, too. I thought to let you get some sleep first.”

John closes his eyes and says nothing.

“John—”

“A little boy came in a week ago with a cold. There was nothing to indicate it was anything else. His mum brought him back on Monday. It was pneumonia. I called an ambulance and he was admitted. I called to check in on Tuesday. He’d passed in the night. He was only four, just a little slip of a thing. Bright eyes. The first time I saw him, he talked and talked so I had to ask him five times to be quiet so I could have a listen to his chest.

“He reminded me of you a bit. Saw everything and had a comment on it all. Told me the receptionist didn't like little boys, that she'd let two little girls have a sticker but none of the boys. His mum hushed him, embarrassed, you know. Like I get.”

Sherlock wisely kept silent, but he knew the source of John's tears earlier, the ones Sherlock had thought premature. More thick tears slid out of John's eyes and his voice hitched.

“When I saw him on Monday, his eyes were dull. His temp was forty cees. I knew I'd fucked up. Let myself be charmed instead of paying attention to his chest. He just hadn't seemed sick.”

John seems to fold in slightly on himself and Sherlock puts his hand out, palm up, in silent invitation. After a moment's hesitation, John threads his fingers through Sherlock's.

“I wanted you to use the bit. I wanted to be angry. Thought about biting you just to goad you into it, like those first few times.”

Sherlock chuckles. A cloth gag still leaves John's teeth free and a few times during their first scenes, he'd tried to bite Sherlock and succeeded on more than one occasion. And of course, because of the intense nature of their interactions in a scene, John hadn't bothered to soften his bite. That was, ostensibly, Sherlock's reason for buying the bit.

“Do you want—I mean, is there—?"

"No, this was perfect," John says softly. Then, "You still have cum in your ear."

Sherlock scoffs, digging at his ear and John laughs. John, laughing, is a wondrous, impossible thing, like the sun at midnight, dark and secret, but blinding. Sherlock basks in it.

John's laughter settles gently into drowsiness. Sherlock waits until John's slow-blinking drowsiness nudges him into sleep before cleaning up. John won't wake for at least eight hours and when he does Sherlock will be waiting for him.


End file.
